Utterly Delicious
by AlbinoF0x
Summary: Harry has fallen from lust into love with someone and these feelings are disturbing voldemorts sleep nearly every night when he "lets them out". voldemort decides to find out who he needs to kill in order to make it stop and dives into Harrys sex fantasy
1. Utterly Delicious

UTTERLY DELICIOUS

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><p>Voldemort was inexplicably being driven mad. Had he a thread of hair on his head it would have been torn out in the raging, clawing <em>agony<em> that had spread though his mind. It was not physical pain. Oh no…it was _love_: seeping into him like a burning fire, consuming his hatred and determination for worlds end.

This was not the first time either. But by far the most painful to date. It began just over three months ago, on the thirty first of July, the wretched Potter boy's birthday. It was a hazy vision, for sure. He suspected Dumbledore had him practicing occulmancy for now it was that rare he could weed into the child's mind for information. But the primal sensation of lust burst forth stronger than he himself had felt it in his prime. He had been able to ignore it well enough. He was the Dark Lord for Mordred's sake. Voldemort had no use for childish urges, like lust. That energy was better used for more _productive_ purposes.

Yet around the same time next week, it came again. The was very little difference, but it was as though the feeling was just the slightest bit stronger.

Within a month and a half of these weekly bursts of sensation, the scene had changed. no longer was he in blurry white haze during these strange outbursts, but in a blurry red haze. He assumed it was because of the color of the Gryffindor dormitories. Not that it truly mattered. No. What mattered was the fact that by now, the Potter boy's lusty excursions were beginning to _physically_ affect him. _Him_! Lord Voldemort was sexually aroused via Harry _Bloody Fucking _Potter! His only very small comfort was that it was not his own lust, but the child's. He took it as a new bit of motivation to destroy the boy faster.

However, that ended three days after said epiphany, when the cycle was broken and Potter relived himself earlier than expected. But he still refused to acknowledge his own arousal. As the months went by, Potter did his business on a more and more frequent basis, until it was not just nightly, but repetitive and _unceasing_ throughout half of the night, _every _night. As it was, the visions were becoming gradually clearer. He could now make out most of the details in the room, including, to his own disgust, a full and graphic view of the boys ministrations to himself.

Lord Voldemort could have handled this quite well, had the feelings of lust remained just that_, lust. _But the Fates were a trio of cruel, sadistic _cunts_. During the last week, love had been added to the mix.

And so he lay there, writhing on his normally comfortable bed, and visions would flash through his mind as the putrid teenage mind of Harry Potter invented graphic scenes of homosexual ruts with some faceless pale character. Whomever this man was, he could not be human. Perhaps vampiric or even veela. That would make them so much easier to find and kill…maybe even in front of the boys own eyes if luck was on his side. Oh, how he would _relish_ in the fallen expression on his face. To watch his …ugh…_love_… for the man be crushed into despair, then denial, then even hatred….beautiful, delicious _hatred_.

Yes….indeed, he would have to investigate further…something to take his mind away from that deplorable emotion.

Potter's mind was already open, so when he slipped in almost completely, it was effortless. Slowly the only thing to differentiate his own thoughts from potters was the intent.

In unison, as if potter was Voldemort puppet master, they both skimmed their fingertips in light circular motions around their right nipple. They hissed, softly and sweetly in parseltongue, as if to a beloved partner and trailed their unoccupied hand over the hills and valleys of the lightly developed abdominals that adorned their stomachs, just before reaching down to cup their ball sacks with a playful squeeze.

Voldemort sneered and disconnected from his body completely, after making sure it had rearranged to a less…._awkward _position. With only a thread of his aura remaining connected to his restored body, he slipped from the outer realms of the boys mind and delved straight into the fantasy, watching it from an observers point of view.

It was quite amusing, actually. This particular fantasy was in the Hogwarts dungeons, it seemed; and Potter was a prisoner.

Tears long dried, has left streaks down his angry, defiant face as he struggled against the shackles that bound his forearms together against his back, and the chained collar that held forced him to kneel uncomfortably, bent over almost as if in a forced bow. His lips were cracked and stained with dried blood, which actually made up for half of the grime that covered his nude and shivering form. Apparently he had been beaten quite severely prior to the beginning of this "story". And if the pale, clamminess of his skin weren't a big enough deterrent, the glaze in his eyes stated quite clearly that he was starving and possibly dying of thirst.

Voldemort wasn't sure to be pleased by this rather beautiful picture, or disturbed by it. If the boy had sexual fantasies about being bound and starved, he may have to find a new way to destroy him before his inevitable death.

He decided to go with his first choice. It was nice seeing Potter in so much agony. Though, he had to wonder, did the child have enough imagination to actually "feel" the pain his mental self would have actually been in?

He slipped into first person for only a moment, out of sheer curiosity and pulled back with an expression that showed no small amount of surprise.

He had most _definitely_ imagined the agony. It had been almost more than he himself could bare. How odd. Was Potter a masochist.

"It has been six months Potter."

Voldemort turned his head to see that familiar faceless figure, suddenly standing at the doorway, in a flowing robe that had been tied at the hips. Harry looked up, not quite seeing him through his unfocused eyes as he slipped his arms out, the upper portion of the robe folding over the sash, revealing a lithe, but perhaps sickly looking torso. Potter sure had odd tastes.

"And yet you do not break…"

He wondered for a moment if this was worth it all. Clearly there would be sexual situations to come within moments, that much was evident from the knowledge of an invisible leer from the faceless being. He could practically smell the impending rape.

He debated weather or not to stay and hope the figure acquired a face at any time, or leave and wait for a name to be called.

He should have left when the dream Potter nodded forlornly when the man offered him a "drink" to quench his thirst, with a wand pointed threateningly at him should he try and refuse. He wanted nothing more than to leave when Potters eyes rolled back as the large manhood was forced into his throat. And even when the boy struggled to keep sucking, his cheeks caved in, as his throat visibly stretched around the mans length with every forceful thrust, Voldemort found himself absolutely _appalled_ and _disgusted _by the fact that not only was he lusting for this filthy activity, but he loved whomever he was picturing.

Yet…he could not look away. Not when tears rolled down those clammy cheeks along with a consistent mantra of whimpering and sobbing. Not when the figure grasped a handful of those messy locks and proceeded to fuck Potter's throat with enough force to drive a nail into wood, all the while whispering dirty, filthy things to his victim.

Though…when the man backhanded the boy's face, sending him sprawling on the ground and trembling with gut wrenching sobs…the Dark Lord admitted to himself that he rather liked that part.

But he could not understand his own lack of willpower when every ounce of his own sense urged him to leave, especially the moment when Potter was lifted back up by his hair and was forced to continue at a brutal and very painful looking pace until he gagged once more, this time on an extensive load of semen, some of which spilled from his lips when he refused to swallow.

Potter attempted to pull away, but the cock was forced back in.

"Swallow or _drown_."

At that, Voldemort could no longer handle this fantasy. As much as he wanted to deny it longer than he had already, he could no more lie to himself about the now, painful erection he felt throbbing against his leg. With a rather loud snarl of self disgust, he began to slip out and settled for "sitting" across the room from Potter and listen for a name. The things he did for world domination…he would need _extensive _therapy after this. And proper Dark Lords did not need _therapy_. Blasted scar headed brat!

He did his best to look away from Potter as the petulant child continued his disgusting routine. Judging from the amount of semen on his hands and torso, he had come to orgasm at least twice so far.

"Insatiable adolescent…." he mumbled under his breath. It went on for what seemed like hours, and probably had been, until the boy finally allowed himself more than quickened breath.

"…Merlin…sh-shi-ah!" his voice was low and controlled, but it was enough to catch Voldemort attention. The boy was absolutely covered in his own essence and the Dark Lord searched his mind for any evidence of such stamina being possible. If he did this every night…

He sat there, mesmerized at the lewd expression. He truly wondered what sort of man could cause such…feelings in the boy. He had never seen anyone in Potter's life who remotely resembled the figure in his dreams. Perhaps it was simply a generic masculine figure?

No. there was nothing generic about it…and a dime a dozen fantasy man would not inspire the reeking stench of love.

"d-don't…s-stop…now…To-" Red eyes snapped up to attention, he had said someone's name, and he had been so wrapped up in his thoughts he had _missed it_!

Rage boiled over within him and he dove back into Potters dream. He would learn the name of the man and he would slaughter him before the boys eyes. Potter would be painted with the blood of his loved one if it took a _lifetime _of nights as _ridiculous _as this!

He reigned in his newly acquired sense of lust before it could affect him and the dream came into focus. Harry was no longer bound to the floor but was bent over, his face smashed into the floor by a spidery hand as he was fucked brutally from behind. The figure was in much better focus now, and had an infinite amount of detail compared to the fantasy…but the face was hidden in the crook of Potters neck, which was bleeding from multiple bite wounds…as was a great portion of the rest of him…_ugh_…including his nether regions.

How disgusting….

How deranged….

…mmnnhh_fuck_….how utterly _delicious_….

It was against his principles…and completely hypocritical…but, Voldemort just…couldn't quite help himself….

He reached down and took his manhood in hand, not bothering with softness, and jerked it up and down the entirety of his cock with long suppressed vigor. His eyes were fixed on Harry. The way his eyes seemed to beg in ways his voice could not manage through his loud and high pitched cries for "More!" and "Deeper!" and "_Holy mother of Merlin_! …ahhh _yes_! Hit it again!" left nothing unsaid. And when his tongue repeatedly darted out, licking his lips as if preparing for something about to plunge into his widely opened mouth, Voldemort wanted to, but did not _dare_ imagine himself accepting that silent invitation.

That was a line he was not ready to cross.

On and on it went, and sooner rather than later, his task of…what was his task again?….he must have forgotten it…

'_Was it so important if I was able to forget so easilyyyyooooh yes, Potter, lift your arse for him….that's a good lad…'_

He was all but ready to burst, now. Potter was currently on his back, bent so sharply that his own cock was in his face.

Voldemort, at some point had gotten close enough to the pair that should he have wanted too he could have reached out and touched them. The sight of the figures length disappearing into Potters tightly stretched arse was so clear he could see the glistening wetness that made those delicious sounds. He could see the sheen of sweat that had formed on both of their bodies, and the movement of muscles under their skin. Puffs of hot air floated from Harry's parted lips, now lightly spattered with his own pre as it dripped from his cock.

_So close…_

Voldemort tore his eyes away, still not quite ready to end the first physically pleasurable experience he had, had in decades. And his eyes landed on the chest of the other man, it was pale, lightly muscled, but skeletal at the same time…how oddly familiar…in his daze, his eyes traveled slowly up the neck and stopped. He was unsure now that he wanted to see this…it may ruin it for him…but…was there not another reason he was here?

His greater instincts were screaming at him like sirens.

'_DO. NOT. LOOK. UP!' _….but he could not resist the temptation…

"Who do you belong to brat?" a lipless mouth grunted as it spread into a sinister, strained but affectionate grin. Red eyes glowed with lust and something…unfamiliar, as the lids drooped down into a bedroom gaze.

Voldemort froze stiff and everything seemed to pull away from him but his shock. He watched as emerald green eyes squeezed shut as his entire body shook with the force of the cock inside him, and he screamed.

"_T-TOMMMM!"_

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><p>Voldemort's eyes snapped open as he was forced back into his body by the sheer magnitude of emotion, and not a split second later, he arched off of his bed with such a loud gasp it transcended into a moan and came violently.<p>

Several moments went by, and he laid there feeling as if he were drowning. The feeling was only unpleasant in the fact that he could not quite pinpoint its name. Yet it was so recognizable in its unrecognizability.

He would have scolded himself for using nonexistent words, had he not been so immersed. He was an intelligent man….not a fool who invented words when he could not find the correct ones.

Yes. And now that he knew Potters secret there was work to be done. He knew his weakness…and also exactly how to trap the Potter child.

He chuckled lightly…

Harry Potter…beyond all reason and logic, (he began to snicker) had inadvertently transformed his own lust for the Great Lord Voldemort (He could no longer help himself, and burst into maniacal shrieking laughter.) into _love_…

Voldemort forced himself to calm down. It would not do to become to…_excited_ over this…after all he had planning to do.

Dumbledore's power of _love_….heh…perhaps there _was _something to it after all…

How disgusting….

How deranged….

….heheheh…how _utterly delicious_….

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><p>i would like some input of weather or not i should continue this as a three shot, or just leave it as is. im thinking of leaving it this way and letting you guys use ur immaginations. but then i would LOVE to make this a three shot as well...so many wonderfully evil ideas swimming about in my sick demented mind 3<p>

so tell me what u think in the reviews. i LOVE constructive critisizm too. so if u didnt like something let me know^^. just be nice?


	2. Voldemort does not! send! flowers!

Harry Potter had always been a rather pro-active wizard. Rather than waiting for things to happen, he would always burst into action and make them. Taking his first year as an example, he recalled how he had gone after Snape into the forbidden wing of Hogwarts only to find that the entire time, it had been Quirrel and none other than Voldemort himself. He had realized when he awoke days later that had he not pursued his little quest, the Philosophers Stone would have remained untouched even today, four years later.

Or perhaps when he triggered his first flurry of bad press by revealing his ability to converse with serpents in second year, or even in third year when he saved his own life in the past when he finally cast his Patronus perfectly.

Yes, he had always been one to storm in and blaze his own trail.

But all of that ended at the end of last term.

He could remember it as if it had only just happened days ago: the grief and utter shock of watching Cedric perish before his eyes, and the terror that froze his blood in his veins when he watched the traitorous rodent cut off his own wand hand and toss it into the foul smelling concoction in the graveyard not twenty feet from him. He could do nothing. He had done nothing. All that year had been planned to perfection by Barty Crouch Jr. and his master, and Harry had been none the wiser.

Out of the normal pattern of his life, for sure; but he had no way of knowing that that event would not only be one of many moments of truth (whether or not he was really up to the task Fate had assigned him), but that it would be the catalyst for something far greater and much more perilous than any prophesized battle between him and Voldemort.

When the mist had cleared, and the feint glow of the crescent moon shined upon the new body of his life long enemy, his heart stopped.

Voldemort's face was pale and gaunt, but the high cheekbones, serpentine nose and all but glowing eyes added depth and mystique to his features. His neck was thin, but strong and so very elegant the way they curved not-too-sharply into his broad masculine shoulders. And his chest…ooohhh his chest; like the pale, smooth, succulent flesh of Michelangelo's David. As if that weren't enough to draw him in, the power, posture and dignity in his stance demanded obedience and could have seduced the most resistant and virtuous of women and men alike. And there was no need to mention the last and most luscious part of him that hung flaccid but no less intimidating large between his powerful thighs.

But…all of his physical beauty melted away into insignificance the moment he spoke his first words.

"robe me." is hardly sensual no matter what way you say it. But the voice that spoke it flowed with a raw, liquid hiss that seemed to river its way into the very core of Harry's magic, tangling with his energy like an orgy of snakes within his gut and groin.

Harry did not even try to quell the violent shiver that rattled the headstone he was bound to. Nor had he been ashamed of the arch of his back when the Dark Lord reached out his magic to call his slightly less than loyal followers.

The moment when Voldemort had touched him, the pain was so immense that it wrapped around the metaphorical column of sensation and became the most intense of pleasures. He had barely suppressed a whimper of desperation when it had ended.

Looking back at the battle following all of this brought him to feel things he had never felt before. The rush, the excitement. Voldemort, Harry knew; hated him with as deep seeded contempt as he, himself felt lust for the monster. But that had only made the game more entertaining. He had imagined it as an erotic dance between fighting lovers.

But it was slowly becoming as painful to want him as it was to hate him. His feelings would never be returned, and he knew it. It was a completely lost cause.

And this was what made him so conflicted with himself now. Could he bare to kill the man he had come to care for? Even if it was only in his mind? Could he destroy the first and only person in his life that was at least somewhat consistent with their opinion of him?

He did not think he could.

He knew he could not.

But…what choice did he have? Die? Gladly, if there was not so much more than his own life at stake. But this was the fate of the entire Wizarding World. Would he condemn his friends and their families…and everyone else to lifetimes of misery?

He saw only one way to get what he wanted, and protect his precious people. But as he had thought before: it was a lost cause.

Harry fell asleep with sadness in his heart.

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><p>"you called for me my lord?" A mop of curly black hair shadowed Bellatrix's eyes as she knelt before her master, who was currently sitting at the desk of his study.<p>

"Indeed." he said simply, rummaging through a small pile of documents pertaining to his next raid on the ministry. "I am in need of a woman's expertise, Bellatrix." he motioned with his hand for her to have a seat and did not look up until she had.

"My lord?"

"I am about to convey a secret to you that I would trust to none but my single most loyal death eater." His voice dripped with flattery, as if he needed to administer it, though his eyes bored into hers. He knew quite well that her "loyalty" was as chemical as it was political. If he was not the genius he was, he may have rushed right into the subject. But if his mother was anything to go by, women were devilishly crafty and jealous creatures. With them it was best to fluff them up, let them preen and glow with pride before letting them know that they may not like what you wish them to do. "Can you keep a precious secret for your _beloved _Dark Lord?" He allowed himself a visible smirk when Bellatrix all but collapsed with what she would have called "reverence". He loved being able to do that.

"oh yes! My lord I will carry it to my very grave!" her voice jittered in a slight vibrato, as if she were straining not to utterly _moan out _what she had to say. "anything you want of me I shall do! I would-"

Voldemort let his mind wander a bit, knowing this routine all too well. He would compliment Bellatrix, then require something of her, and she would then proceed to babble on about all of the rather graphic things she would do for him. He had never paid enough attention to know whether or not they were sexual at all, but then again, this was Bellatrix.

He decided to take a few seconds to delve into the mind of the Potter boy, it was around half past noon. The boy would not be…ahem…well yes, he would not. Within naught but a half of a moment he was detached from his body, which he had arranged in a position he hoped came off as "very interested in what Bellatrix had to say", and was sitting opposite of Potter at what was quite obviously a table in the great hall. A Weasley and a bushy haired child, he assumed these were Ronald and Hermione; sat a few feet away glancing at him and whispering worriedly as Potter stared at his plate of food and pushed his peas around on his mashed potatoes. This would hardly have been anything interesting, if the boy had not been sighing every few seconds in a rather forlorn way.

The Dark Lord floated through the table and placed himself next to Potter, peering down at his plate.

It appeared that his peas were now outlining the drawing of a flower. How quaint. He had drawn a mulberry. He recognized the bloom from the Malfoy gardens. It was actually rather creative if he did say so himself, the peas were to trap the gravy he'd used to "color in" the drawing.

Voldemort had to roll his eyes at how ridiculous he was being. He was sitting here spying on a child when he had much more important things to do with his time.

Soon he was looking at the snapping fingers of his servant, and with a growl of irritation (he knew he had wasted too much time) he batted her hand away.

"I am sorry my lord, but I was frightened when you did not respond." Her eyes were slightly more glistened than before. She truly was a remarkably emotional woman.

"Bellatrix," he began. "in the future you will restrain from invading my personal space. If I do not respond it is because something has called to my attention and requires it." He lifted an eyebrow, daring her to contradict him. She only bowed low in apology.

"yes, my lord." she looked up timidly, which was indeed quite a sight. " May I ask what you saw? Was it that retched boy?" She snarled slightly. The corner of Voldemort's lip curled; he knew she wouldn't disappoint him.

"Flowers?" the Dark Lord practically spat. "You believe that Potter would enjoy receiving _flowers_?" Bellatrix looked quite dreamy, probably imagining him sending _her_ a bouquet rather than the boy. Of all the complete drivel-

"Oh _yes_, my lord." She all but sighed, her hand on her cheek, on which Voldemort could plainly see a feint blush. "Flowers are ever so symbolic, a single flower of a certain kind can mean something different depending on how much it has bloomed. And an entire bouquet of them will mean something separate as well."

Now, this had the dark lord thinking, which was something he did not need to do often. He just simply knew what to do on instinct. But then he had never studied anything he had not deemed important. _Bloom Lore_, as the daft woman had called it; had not been on that list.

Potter had drawn a flower on his mashed potatoes. A mulberry. Of all the more common and less complicated flowers he could have drawn, why _a mulberry_?

"What would a Mullberry symbolize?" he asked. Bellatrix tilted her head.

"Well Milord, it depends."

"of course." Voldemort growled.

"White or black?" Voldemort did not know weather it was simply irritation, or a sudden epiphany, but something inside him snapped.

"_IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS MAGIC! This is ridiculous_!" He was a bloody dark lord! Not some pedophile florist trying to woo a child who still plays with his food!

"_Why in earth do I not just lure the boy with a letter with promises of whatever the damned brat wanted, and leave it at that_?" It was much faster and far less painful to think about.

"my lord you know as well as I that love does not just simply cloud the mind into stupidity." it was truly amazing how his anger did not frighten her. "true it can make anyone ignorant…hopelessly devoted, perhaps; but if one has common sense before love, they will have common sense after it." Though her voice carried a hint of sadness, she spoke soothingly, and Voldemort was surprised to feel his temper quell itself. Bellatrix was a sincerely remarkable woman. If he were ever to consort with someone, it would be her. "Potter will not simply leave on a whim when summoned, not even for you, my lord." Voldemort grunted, rubbing his temple.

"you must court him in a way that will dazzle and beguile him. This is a good way. Perhaps more troublesome, Master…but the end goal is worth every ounce of it." Though his eyes were closed, he could feel her soft expression behind him moments before her hand came to rest on his shoulder.

He did not know why, after so many years he finally allowed it to remain there. But for the first time, he enjoyed the physical contact.

It was, of course, all Potter's fault. He had awoken stirrings within him and now they were surfaced and would not be pushed down again easily, damn him.

But…yes, he did like it when those, no doubt; talented hands rubbed over his shoulder blades, soothing his rather knotted muscles into relaxation over the next twenty minutes of nothing but the sound of his own soft moaning, and the ever so slightly heavier breathing of the woman behind him. He did not even realize that the face he pictured behind him was not woman's, but that of a young, green eyed, adolescent boy.

"What _does_ a black mulberry mean anyway…" he mumbled under his breath. In response, Bellatrix bent low and purred into his ear.

" 'I know I will not survive you.' "

* * *

><p>It was after the game, that Harry's spirits finally lifted some. Quidditch had been exactly what he needed; the rush of the wind, the roar of the crowds, the scowling face of Malfoy when he lost yet another game against him. Oh yes, life was good…for the time being. He wasn't stupid enough to think this would just go away, this nagging aching feeling. But at least for right now he could look forward to a stiff drink in the common room at the party that followed nearly every game.<p>

He was not disappointed. Umbridge may be reeking havoc around the school. But thankfully she had not taken quid ditch, or in house parties…yet. As usual girls threw themselves at him, asking him if they could give his "poor back" a massage, or if he wanted to "see them" or to "celebrate with them privately".

He turned down all offers of course, but for once he liked the attention. It distracted him from…other things. He had even managed to get pulled into a game of spin the bottle with the first and second years. His was made victim to several girls that night, and even fell into a rather heated snog with Fred and George when they had joined in and magicked the bottle of fire whisky to land on one of them whenever it was Harry's turn to spin. It had taken a blushing Hermione and a well aimed IMMOBIOLUS to stop them when they were down to their trousers on the couch. Harry, it seemed; was a very horny drunk, and several girls made a strong and imposing mental note of this, as well as the Twins.

But finally it was nearing midnight, and Harry was finally through with his post drunken crash and headed up to his room for a hangover potion and a good nights rest.

After he had taken it and stripped to his knickers, Harry removed his glasses and collapsed on his bed in complete and utter exhaustion. Had he not felt a small crunch beneath his head, he may have fallen to sleep instantly.

When he sat up to inspect his pillow, he was surprised to see what looked like a small stick. Quickly, he snatched up his glasses and put them back on.

It was a single flower tied with a black ribbon. Carefully, he spelled it for any curses or potions it may be laced with. He wouldn't put it past an admirer to try and force his love. He was not vain, just careful.

When he saw it was clean, he picked it up and smiled sadly. He wished that he could reciprocate whomever hat taken the time to give this. He knew how it felt.

It was then he noticed he didn't know what kind of flower it was. How strange, most would give a rose or carnation or some such thing.

His thoughts were interrupted just as Neville had just walked through the door, looking less than tired and his face was just a bit pinker than usual under his, now; rather messy hair.

"Hiya Harry." he said dreamily, flopping down onto his bed with a goofy smile. Harry chuckled.

"Who was it?"

"A-Angelina." Harry's jaw dropped in shock.

"Angelina?" Neville nodded and turned towards him, his lips swollen from what must have been quite a kiss.

"the most beautiful woman in the school…likes _me_." he said happily. "_Me_, Harry!" His eyes darted to the flower in Harry's hand. "D'you upset someone?"

"Why do you ask?"

"That flower." he said simply. "Who are you giving it too?"

"Someone gave it to me, actually." he said, turning it between his fingers. Neville gave him a funny look.

"wow, they must be pretty serious about you." Harry lifted a questioning eyebrow. "That's a hyacinth and a violet one at that. Means that they know they wronged you in a way they know they cant be forgiven."

"Really? Jeeze she sounds like a real bitch." Harry laughed softly. "wonder who it is."

"Don't laugh about it Harry." Neville sat up suddenly looking slightly upset. Harry forgot how passionate he was about Herbology. "That flower in your hand means that they are on the verge of _suicide_! That they cant stand to be the one who upset you." he looked very worried. "you need to find out who sent that!" Harry practically choked. Some bird was gonna commit suicide over him?

"think I should show it to Dumbledore?"

"Wait until tomorrow. I doubt the person who sent it wouldn't give you enough time to consider forgiving them."

"How do you know?" Harry asked, not quite comforted.

"Just trust me Harry. Its best to wait till morning."

"….well…alright."

* * *

><p>Alright so i have decided that 3 chapters isnt going to be enough. but then i know myself and i never finish a long story. so i am limiting myself. my goal is to finish this in 5 to 7 chapters. that will leave plenty of room for smut and plottyness, but still stay fresh enough for me to stay interested.<p>

on that note. yes i KNOW the flower thing is dorky. but i figure voldy doesnt know jack shit about dating so he goes to the only woman he's rly familiar with, who just happens to be a complete and _utter romantic SAP_ under all of her mad evilness. plus. the thought of voldemort sending harry flowers is just fucking hystarical and rediculous. like severus snape skipping around the great hall in a pink bunny suit and tossing candy into the air while singing "its a small world"


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